Day 4: Jada's Week, Freya's Interaction (Asking Questions)

You're holding Freya’s coffee again. Same custom order. You know it by heart now, but it still feels risky, like carrying a matchbox into a fireworks factory. She’s already on the bench when you get there. Not waiting like someone might wait for a date, but simply there, like a landmark. She’s in a thick knit sweater that makes her look less like a challenge and more like an inevitability. Today’s book is different—thicker, older, brutalized by notes in four ink colors and enough neon sticky flags to qualify as an art installation. She doesn’t look up when you approach, just gestures lazily toward the seat beside her.

You hold out the coffee. She takes it, sips, and murmurs, “You’re still brave. I like that.”

There’s the faintest trace of amusement around the edges of her mouth. She turns a page with a fingertip, like peeling the skin off something delicate. “Let’s begin.”

You blink. “Begin what?”

She finally looks up. Her eyes are cool, unblinking. “The study.”

At first, you think she’s still roleplaying. That this is some kind of foreplay code. But then she sets the book down and pulls a notepad from her bag. The paper is thick, textured—real paper, not some recycled dorm filler—and the pen she uses looks like it costs more than your monthly grocery budget.

She clicks it once. Then again. Then stills herself and looks at you. “What made you sign up?”

Her sudden bluntness jars your mind. “For the game?”

She doesn’t answer. Just waits. She’s obviously not here to answer obvious questions.

You clear your throat. “I guess I wanted to test myself. Maybe… be someone more interesting. Someone bold.”

She nods like she’s heard that before. “What did you expect the outcome to be?”

You hesitate. “A good time?”

“Don’t waste both our days.”

You feel the sting, but also something more dangerous: curiosity.

“All right,” you say, leaning forward on the bench. Your knees angle towards her, like a confession or a therapy session is in progress. “I thought it’d be fun. Exciting. That maybe I’d get to hook up with someone I’d never have the nerve to talk to otherwise.”

That gets a small reaction. She jots down a few words. “And what did you expect me to be?”

You shrug. “Hot. Scary. Maybe a little unhinged.”

She raises an eyebrow, still writing. “And now?”

You exhale slowly. “Still hot. Still scary. Definitely unhinged. Maybe a bit… brilliant?”

She doesn’t smile, but the pen pauses. “Flattery won’t get you laid. But it might get you context.”

“What about you?” you ask. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m building a lens,” she says. “A record. Of intimacy, perception, submission, and control. What people think they’re doing versus what they’re really doing. And how far they’re willing to go to convince themselves they’re not playing a game. The main focus of my degree is on perspectives of self and others in the postmodern media environment. Of course sex is a major part of that.”

“Sounds personal.”

“It is,” she says. “But that doesn’t make it about me.”

You try to follow that one, then give up. She’s obviously dropping a hint about something but it’s beyond you. She flips the page.

“Do you get off on being seen?”

Your mouth opens, closes. “I hadn’t considered it until I joined this game. I’d pretty much only had sex with one partner and in private. Now. I dunno. Sometimes. It feels weird, but yeah, it does sometimes turn me on.”

“And do you seek approval or power?”

You consider. “Both, I guess. I like the idea of someone wanting me. Needing me. But maybe also envying me a little. And power only within a mutual arrangement. One where you both gain from it.” You think back to your experiences with Kailani, Chloe and Kennedy. “Honestly, I think I like it when I give up power too. Though I still feel a bit weird about it.”

She pauses at that but doesn’t press further. “Do you think you’ll feel more like a man after this week?”

“…What does that even mean?”

She shrugs. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

The interview winds down, or maybe just changes temperature. She sets the pad aside and wraps her fingers around her now-lukewarm cup. You wait, watching her like a rabbit watches a snake, waiting for inevitable danger.

“I want to document this,” she says. “You. This process. Not for credit. Not yet. But something real. Something lasting.”

Your heart kicks up a gear. “Wait—you want to film it?”

She nods slowly. “Only what matters. You. Talking. Reflecting. I’m not looking for porn. I’m looking for insight.”

You hesitate. “I’m… supposed to keep things private,” you chuckle as you remember the fight club reference Rhett made. “The first rule of college spread is… you don’t talk about College Spread. Well, except to get permission to record the encounters.”

“I won’t mention the game, you or the college by name. And it will only be our one session, off-campus. Just you talking, answering questions and exploring your experiences. Maybe some footage from whatever we do, but edit. It’ll be sensual for context. Artistic. Oblique.”

You eye her. “Still shows my face though.”

She doesn’t blink. “You’re already being seen, aren’t you? Don’t you have to record what we do anyway? You’re not invisible. I just want to give your visibility meaning.”

“And if I say no?”

She leans back, slow, relaxed. “Then I decline the challenge.”

Your jaw tightens. That was expected, but it puts you in a bind. “That’s ****.”

“That’s boundaries, and mutual gain,” she says coolly. “You want something from me. I want something from you. If you think that’s unfair, you probably shouldn’t be in a game about seduction and consent.”

You stare down at your shoes. They’re dusty. Worn. You think about how many steps brought you to this moment, and how few of them you actually remember making. Finally, you look up. “One session. One video. You keep it anonymous.”

She tilts her head. “That’s fair.”

“And no posting it. Not until… you get permission.”

“Agreed,” she says. Then pauses. “Though I will be seeking permission. Quietly. From the board. The deans. This deserves analysis, and I intend to present it properly. But if they say no—it ends with us.”

You nod. It’s the best compromise you’re going to get.

She reaches into her notebook again, tears a page from the back, and hands it to you. It’s an address. Not campus. Not dorms.

“Tomorrow. Four o’clock. Come alone. Be honest.”

She stands and doesn’t look back.

You sit there for a while. The paper in your hand feels heavier than it should. Like it’s not just ink on pulp, but a contract you never meant to sign. You think about cameras. About being seen. About what you’re really playing for. And not for the first time, you wonder if this game is playing you. You exhale deeply as you fold the paper and place it in your pocket. Tomorrow. You don’t know whether you’re more scared or excited.